Nearly Forgotten
by SoundsRight
Summary: At first, he seemed a bit confused. Later on, he finally remembered. Rated T for language. Françis/That Girl.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.  
Note: I would be using their character names, mostly. Also, I would like to apologize early for any out of character behaviour and/or poor plotting.**

**..**

Françis looked ahead at the silent meadow. All the grass, weeds and flowers swayed gently from the wind's caressing breeze. With the wind carefully playing with anything that stood in the lonely space, the man was found to be certainly of no exception from the element's time of amusement. The trees around were rather bare, but it was a good enough of a number.

If one is to be a photographer or an artist (or even a movie director), then that person should never miss this wonderful place. It was like a short glimpse of what heaven would look like, one could say. Of course, Françis will never have the chance of going to that sacred place.

Actually, he just probably needed to wait a few more centuries or so to fade away—he didn't know.

Will there be a 'God' (if he were to die)? Would the creator welcome the fallen country with wide, open arms?

Again, Françis had no clue.

Averting his attention from his thoughts to the picturesque landscape in front of him, he quietly scanned the place. As he stopped turning his head around in his small search, he found what looks to be a cross of some sort.

As the man walked his way over to the strange monument, it was now clear that it really is a cross—it just had been aged and weathered from the many years it had stood in the meadow. It was made of wood that now looked as if it could hold on for another year or two; he'll change it, soon.

How many years—decades—centuries has it been, already? Four? Six? Possibly something even higher? Also, when was the last time he'd visited this meadow? It's probably been a few years, now; he had been rather busy, lately. The grass had certainly grown from his last trip; the cross was almost lost in the vast sea of green and small spots of other colours.

The man had slightly forgotten. He had longed to forget something, but he also had been hopelessly preserving his memories. The images in his mind had been blurred since long ago; sometimes he'd wonder what exactly what he was trying to remember—who was he trying to remember?

He hadn't even memorized the name of the place he was currently in. It was both a pleasant and a sorrowful pasture, he felt. It was a familiar place (not much of a surprise since he pretty much walked on every piece of land he had). He was certain that he was at the eastern side, though.

He didn't understand why he had brought a bouquet of one of the most beautiful flowers that his country could grow. The flowers were of the colour white—sometimes dubbed as a hue rather than a colour; he obviously didn't care. It usually meant something of purity or of innocence, he recalled.

In the back of his mind, a blurred image of a girl slowly crept into his mind—ah.

It was her.

It was _that girl_.

The cross that now stood in front of him only made the man get a painful feeling in his chest. He now remembers what had happened; he'd recalled who was supposed to be under that cross; he also reminded himself of the people responsible of the loss of this innocent girl. Although, everything is still one large blur. Nothing was of certain clarity. Even the things he had spoken and heard at those times were either low mumbles or untrustworthy words that had stuck to his memory.

Nothing was clear to him. That point in time had been a very long time ago. The nation was even convinced that some other countries were not even born yet. It was not as extravagantly long ago as some people might think, but it felt like a reasonably long time for Françis.

The world does not stop for anyone, so the new things he'd face did not stop coming in. One cannot blame a man to explain a memory so buried in the back of his mind and tell every distinct detail from then on.

Françis was not so gifted as to have that ability—to remember every single thing he saw, heard, tasted, smelled, and touched in great precision. Sometimes, he'd wished himself to obtain it. Other times, the man felt genuinely lucky to not have the gift.

His mind soon went back to the girl and the aged cross in front of him. That girl was barely a full-grown woman—only around the age of nineteen, he evoked. He wasn't exactly sure if she had golden hair or brown hair (most of the images were of when she had brown hair, though), but he did remember that she had cut it short at some point in her life.

Ah. It was because it was better that way; it was for the benefit of the war they had faced.

He instantly recalled that she had not been the most appealing as other women had been. She was also born in the countryside— Françis then realized that he was standing in her home province. Even if the girl had lacked the beauty of those in the cities, the girl's strength and spirit had made up for it.

No. It only added to her (now definite) innocent and raw beauty. Had she worn make-up at the time, if ever it was even invented? He concluded that she did not and would not. She had no time for it, or maybe wasn't even interested in it. Having most of the girls now in the twenty-first century caring to have it, Françis didn't think the girl would easily fit in this new world with such women.

After another second to ponder, maybe she would. Women, nowadays, have been climbing up ranks alongside the working men. The girl might not have fitted as easily, but at least she'll have a chance to feel the independence she had for herself. Back in her time, it was simply outrageous for a woman to excel in anything men were known to handle best—a real shame that was, really.

For one, it was rather unheard of a woman to lead a vast army to numerous victories.

Françis, with the bouquet still in his hand, sat down at the bare ground (a few grass and weeds acted as a cushion of some sort). He gingerly picked out a flower from the bunch in his hand—it was the smallest he could find, and he let the others left in the plastic bind to be placed right at the feet of the cross. Slowly feeling the soft petals of the small, white flower, he tried to recall if he ever had touched the girl.

Not as in doing any sort of sexual deed, no (actually, probably yes). Had he at least brushed his fingertips at the side of her cheek, or had he even had the chance to hold onto her hand? He believed that he had. There had been many times he had held her hand, in fact. Usually, it was either out of comforting one another or pacing slowly at the free time they were given before, between or after each battle.

He recalled that he would sometimes scold her about ruining her body from the many skirmishes that she had fought in. The girl's body would be full of bruises, wounds and scars both old and new. Her reply, if memory would serve correct, was that she would not mind to damage her body if it were to bring her nation back at its feet.

Françis then decided that she was perhaps the first woman whom he ever loved. Well, maybe not in the way that couples were typically in. Rather, it was the kind of love that sees another to be admired and a symbol of hope for the future.

So was all of it admiration? He didn't think so. It was probably more than that, really. Certainly—somewhat certainly, he believed that it was not purely romantic love. It was something more complicated to be sure about, he concluded.

What he was sure of, however, was that the girl had loved her country. In short, she loved him. His greatest rivals, though, would have to be her love for his people, the lands that were claimed and held onto and just about everything else—you could say that she even loved the animals raised in her province.

Even with all of that, it still came down to the fact that she greatly loved Françis. As he felt for her, it was not of pure romantic love. The man sighed deeply to himself. This was becoming confusing, already.

What if Françis had become mortal, instead? Would he be able to love her in a certain way?

No. It was because of the fact that he is the nation, so he was able to be close to the brave girl. If he had become like her, then she would surely not fall in love with him. He would have to share that love with the other citizens that had been there. That is how much she loved her country. Thinking about it now, it was somewhat disheartening to him.

Contently, it was safe to say that she still loved—loves Françis (even beyond her life, he realized, she would still love her nation). He soon decided that he had no rivals. Most of her love was for him.

The man gently smiled to himself.

His smile quickly soured into the frown after realizing that he had betrayed her, in the end. After everything she had done for him, Françis had betrayed her. As she fell off from her horse, he had done nothing but become held back to watch her as she was taken away. He knew that she might think of what had happened as something that the Lord had planned, but he'd have none of it.

His bitterness soon turned to the pirate nation that was involved—he then blocked out the unnecessary hazy details and skipped to the finish of the soon-ending story. Françis wanted to have none of the tea-drinking bastard in his mind.

This trip would only be meant for remembering everything about the girl that once lived. It would be memories that were _strictly_ of her, only.

His mind then recalled the cruel fate the girl faced. After being captured and sold, she had been locked up—with other men. Françis could only turn pale at the evident event that was bound to happen to her. It was one of the reasons why she had dressed as a man, again. It was to fend off any future occurrences of the unwanted ordeal in her cell.

By redoing such an act, she had shortly been punished because she only meant to protect herself. It was of a natural habit to defend oneself; she had been to war, had she not? They said she had been guilty of a capital crime or something of the sort. She was innocent. She _is_ innocent. She always had been as such and she always will be. He and his people had already proved of her blamelessness, but it had been already a few years later.

The final stretch of the nation's memory of her had been, by far, the worst of them all. As she stood tall (unmoving from the ropes) and with a firm look on her face, one could tell that she had accepted her end. A small cross was found at her feet; it had been made by a fellow peasant.

Françis had been to the tragic and vindictive scene; he nearly cried out her name as the fire started to build up at the bottom of her feet. When she looked at him as he stood before her, she had smiled at him—it was as if she were telling him that everything would be alright without her.

The man already knew that he would never be forgiven because she hadn't hated him for a second. Even with being useless in saving her, no ill thoughts were thrown at him by the girl—he wanted to kick himself. He wanted to do something worse to himself. He _deserved_ an insult from her, at least.

She had winced in pain when the flames had started on her legs, but she had never once screamed (even when the blaze had slowly charred her every limb). Françis could only presume that she thought only screaming would ruin everything she had done for her country. She was the only who remained strong at that moment. Françis could recall that he had hopelessly collapsed on his knees; he had no awareness of the other people that watched with him.

The moment he had finally shouted out at protest was when she had to be burned for the second (third and fourth) time.

Until now—surprisingly, the faint smell of the fire manages to surround the Frenchman at some random days and nights. He hated the wretched stench, but he told himself that this was sort of what she had smelled like in the final moments of her life. His final image of her was the ashes that managed to be swept up in the playful air. After the slaughter was done, Françis remembered, he had no strength to go up to the girl reduced to ashes and bury his hands in the soot.

Only when everyone left had he walked up to the spot where she had been murdered. Nothing was left behind—not even her rosary was found in the pile. She was a religious person, he recalled. At that moment, Françis had let it all out and cried.

He had nothing to remember her by, now.

The rest of her that was on the ground was soon swept up by another man—it was the executioner. Neither of the two had uttered a single word to each other. Françis could only stay paralyzed as the other finally told him that her remains shall be cast at Seine. The grief-stricken man wished to drown himself alongside her, but he knew that she'd be mad.

If only he'd have something left behind for him, then he would not have to momentarily forget about her. Françis would have kept her moving image vivid in his mind. He admits that he regretfully sees everything as a blur. He felt pathetic. He doesn't even recall what the colour of her eyes was.

As a small atonement of some sort, he made a cross of his own—he made it as her gravestone. He had travelled all the way to a meadow where it had been clad in nothing but small sprouts of whatever plant shall grow there. She had been born around the place, so he decided to at least put up the cross there in memory of her. Picking a random but beautiful spot, he set the hand-made cross to stand amongst the growing life around it.

He then felt the same playful air pulling him back to the present times, and it is surely mocking him. It must be the same wind from back then.

With a final sigh to himself, Françis then stood up and placed the small flower in the breast pocket of his coat; the flower made a complete contrast to all the black he wore. The small thing would be his little remembrance of her, he decided. When it would die, he'd still keep it.

After patting the dirt away from the back of his trousers, the man smiled at the cross, once more—as if the girl had been there the whole time.

"_A bientôt,_" Françis bowed as a performer would do to an audience—displaying both grace and appreciation of the crowd's attention. "_m'ange_." It had been said so quietly that it could be described as a whisper of some sort.

And with that, Françis had returned to the direction he had come from. He wasn't sure when he'll be able to visit here again, but he was certain that he'd see her again. He might say something more, this time—he laughed.


	2. Notes

**Note: Most of my references come from the commonly abused Wikipedia; the rest are from other sites, things I've experienced, or from the official Hetalia comics/show. **

**I will be writing some guides where you could find where the notes are referring to—it's going to be like a treasure hunt. If I say which paragraph in general is being referred to, though, it's because the sentence is too long. Ha ha.**

..

_Setting_  
-Françis is in a meadow somewhere near a place called Domrémy-la-Pucelle. It was previously just named Domrémy, but it was later annexed to the province of Lorraine and got renamed.  
-The time is around the year 2009. Ha ha.

_Eighth Paragraph_  
-With world being as it is, I decided to make Françis busy.

_Eleventh Paragraph_  
-The flower could be anything, but preferably not a rose. I'm not sure if there is such a thing as a white iris, but let's settle to that if there is any.  
-I prefer that it would not be a rose because I want a more "local" flower, and one of Arthur's national flowers is a rose (the Tudor Rose, really). It feels weird, for me, to make Françis present the opposition's national flower.

_Fourteenth Paragraph  
_-The girl is none other than Joan of Arc (or Jeanne d'Arc).  
-In Hetalia, she is known as _that girl_. I've read it somewhere in the official comics.

_Fifteenth Paragraph_  
-He now remembers about the times Jeanne was still alive and what she had to face.  
-He recalled that she was supposed to be under that cross.  
-He reminded himself that the English (and Burgundians) were involved in this. Thus, Arthur is somewhat indirectly referred to in this fic.

_Sixteenth Paragraph_  
-What he is going back to happened in the early 1400s. That's _really_ a considerably long time.

_Nineteenth Paragraph  
_-Jeanne was born in the year 1412 and she died at the year 1431—presumably nineteen years old at the time.  
-Why Françis is not so certain about her hair colour is simply because I see some people make her blonde and, from others, brunette. Actually, she's really a brunette. At least that's what I saw in Wikipedia. They provided a picture of a portrait of her made in 1485—she had brown hair. (Other portraits found in the site also had her with brown hair.)

_Twentieth Paragraph  
_-Cutting her hair was so that she'd look more like a man. She also wore men's clothing to complete her look. This was because she would not slow down in battle and the men she fought with would least likely become tempted to molest her.  
-The war they faced was the Hundred Years War.

_Twenty-fifth Paragraph_  
-Historians agree that the army enjoyed numerous victories during her time.

_Thirty-second Paragraph_  
-Remember, Françis is France. Ha ha.

_Thirty-third Paragraph_  
-What I mean by Françis feeling somewhat disheartened is because Jeanne is a human and not a nation. To say things simply, they could never hope for a couple-like relationship.

_Thirty-sixth Paragraph_  
-I wanted Françis to be guilty of the fact that when she had been captured in an English and Burgundian siege at Compiѐgne, he could not help her family pay the ransom. King Charles VII was condemned by historians that he had failed to intervene, but I wanted Françis to bring the blame to himself. This is why I said that Françis had "betrayed" her.  
-Before Jeanne was captured, an archer from the opposing side had shot her down from her horse.  
- Jeanne is a religious sort of person. Obviously since that she would report that she heard the voices from Saint Michael, Saint Catherine and Saint Margaret when she was around the age of twelve, and, of course, she believes in God.

_Thirty-seventh Paragraph_  
-The bitterness from Françis to Arthur is because he was not only involved, but the English soon bought Jeanne from the Burgundians and had her in a prison.  
-She was captured at 23rd May, 1430, so Françis skipped to the uneventful happening at 1431.

_Thirty-ninth Paragraph_  
-Jeanne was meant to be locked up with other women and guarded by women—presumably nuns, but she was sent to a place full of men. She was sexually assaulted.  
-Because of what had happened to her, she soon dressed as a man (though, there was also a testimony from Jean Massieu that her clothes had been stolen and she had nothing else to wear). Even when she "promised" to wear women's clothing again, she went back to wearing men's clothing.

_Fourtieth Paragraph_  
-Jeanne was then subjected to repeating the offense of heresy; it was a capital crime. The technical reason of her execution was from a biblical clothing law.  
-After the Hundred Years War had ended, Jeanne's mother and Inquisitor-General Jean Brehal had requested for a retrial. The court had declared Jeanne's innocence at 7th July, 1456.

_Fourty-first Paragraph_  
-Jeanne's execution was that she was to be burned while being tied to the pillar in the Vieux-Marche in Rouen.

_Forty-fifth Paragraph_  
- After Jeanne's body had been charred, the English raked the coal over her again. It was to be sure that she could not escape. They burned her twice more so that there would be nothing left of her but ashes.

_Forty-eighth Paragraph_  
-Aside from the portraits made of her, I couldn't find that there was anything left of her personal belongings. If there is any, then Françis is wrong. Ha ha.  
-There was a time when there was a jar that supposedly contained Jeanne's remains, but it actually came to be from an Egyptian mummy.

_Forty-ninth Paragraph_  
-The name of the executioner is Geoffroy Therage.  
-Seine is a river found in France.

_Fifty-fifth Paragraph_  
-"A bientôt" means "See you soon".  
-"_m'ange_" supposedly means "my angel". When one mumbles, I think that's what you'll hear. I'm certain that this is wrong. 'Ange' is what I found in my dictionary. My concern is that it is in masculine form (maybe it's really like that). I just took a guess with this—my apologies.  
-Probably you could actually take this as an inside joke of some sort. She had cross-dressed as a man, right?  
-Jeanne, in fact, became a saint in France, but I liked the sound of Françis calling her his angel.

**..**

**I'm sorry for anything written that is rather rude or inappropriate. **

**If there are any mistakes to any of these notes, I'll happily accept some new points of information.  
If there are any points of clarification, please don't hesitate to ask.**


	3. From the Author

All,

I thank whoever took the time to read the fic. To be honest, this plot has been keeping its place in my mind for a long time, so I really had the urge to just write the thing. I'm glad that I was able to do so. I feel rather relieved, really.

I admit that Françis and Jeanne would have to be my favourite het!pairing in Hetalia. Even if it's not canon or Jeanne is not even a nation, I still love the pairing. I find it adorable.

I _might_ write something more about this couple, but I have another couple to write about. The other couple is actually my most favourite one. As some might presume correctly, it is a BL!pairing. Ha ha.

…I think I won't write anymore fics about this pairing. It just feels awkward to make Jeanne become reincarnated into the future, and I already exhaust everything I imagined into this one. Anyways, only time will tell.

Maybe someone might have the idea to write it, already (or it's already there). That shall be interesting.

Again, thank you for reading.

See You and Take Care,  
SoundsRight


End file.
